What War Is
by Introvert On Your Bus
Summary: The definition of war to young Matthieu as he waits for his papa's all too rare visits.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer; I do not own Hetalia, or war, for that manner.

Matthieu knew what a war was. A war was the reason he couldn't see Papa anymore, at least not as often as he used to. A war was when Papa limped into his room hours after bedtime just to deliver a kiss on his forehead that would have to last for days. A war was the reason he had to spend hours alone, just playing with his toys and trying to read his own stories. Hours of pretending that he could feel Papa holding him and hear the kind voice that gave each character a tone.

A war was the reason Matthieu had wet sleeves so often.

A war was the reason that Papa came home, still bleeding and in need of medical attention, so loudly one afternoon. Matthieu was excited when he saw the Frenchman, but he didn't understand why his papa was crying. "Papa?" crooned the young blounde, wide violet eyes trained on the other. "P-papa?"

Francis pressed shaky kisses to his son's face, and Matthieu felt the dread even before he was delivered the news. "Je suis d sol , mon amour. Papa is so horribly sorry." The Canadian was growing fearful, his stomach unsettled. "Papa?" the boy whispered. "Matthieu, sh." Held against Francis' chest so tightly, the Canadian had no choice but to obey, and he clung tightly to his trembling father figure. He understood that this had something to do with the war. It seemed that everything had to do with the war.

When he finally pulled away, the European had the most haggard, defeated look in his eyes. "Matthieu, I need you to listen," he said in a hoarse tone of voice. "Matthieu, mon petit Matthieu. Je suis d sol ." Matthieu tightened his hands on the other's shirt. "Mais Papa has lost. The war is done." Matthieu paused for a moment. The war was done? Then why was his papa crying? That meant that they had more time to play! "I-it's fine, Papa," he said with the widest smile that he had held in for the longest time. "You'll win next time! W-we can play now!" he cheered in his airy voice, throwing his arms around Francis.

When the man burst into a fresh round of tears and held him closer than before, Matthieu had to admit that he was puzzled again. Didn't Papa want to play with him? "P-papa? What's wrong?" he asked tentatively, miniature hands resting on his father's shoulders. The Frenchman took a gasping breathe of air.

"Je suis d sol . Matthieu, Papa has lost the war."

Matthieu nodded.

"When Papa loses the war, he loses what he was fighting for."

Another nod.

"Amour, Papa was fighting for you."

The Canadian froze. Wait... Papa was gone because of him? And if he lost the war, then... "P-papa?" Matthieu choked, the tears flowing before he even accepted what the man meant. Francis felt his bottom lip wobble as he kissed the tears away, though his own dripped onto the youth's face. "Je suis d sol , Matthieu, I am so very sorry." Matthieu looked up at his father with doe eyes, afraid to know what losing meant. "D-does Papa have to go fight until he wins?" Francis could almost physically feel his heart break. "Non, amour, it does not work like that. You...are a big boy now, oui?"

Matthieu off to the side of his guardian, his shoulder moving just a fraction in a shrug. He still didn't see where this was going...

~*~

"Papa, non! Papa! Papa!" Matthieu shrieked, thrashing in bed. His thin, childish body was encased in cold sweat, and the blankets were wrapped so devilishly around his fragile limbs.

Arthur found himself growing annoyed as yet another night's sleep was disrupted; his sympathy with his Canadian had run out long before, after the eighth time he had been bitten and clawed at; and only six of those times had been because of his decidedly un-French tasting foods. Alfred didn't know what to make of his brother. Matthew never wanted to play, or leave his room, and he used to give the American his food until Arthur found out. But, most odd to him, the boy never wanted to talk to Arthur, even if he was really hungry or hurt. When Alfred had tried to ask why, the other just muttered about how he was waiting for someone.

Matthieu, as usual, woke to the sounds of his own crying, blurry figures dancing before him. "A dream," he choked awkwardly, shaking and gasping as the violent after-shudders hit. "A-a dream." But it wasn't a dream, was it? It was his memory of being taken from the one he had come to know as 'Papa', the kind man who had always cared for him.

The man who wasn't there any more, whose face was beginning to fade from memory.

Because of the war.

Yes, Matthieu, now reluctantly named 'Matthew', knew what war was.

War was bad. War was evil. War was his worst enemy.

War was loneliness. 


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer; I do not own Hetalia.

Author's Note; This is what happened when Arthur took Matthew. I wrote this when I was younger, but I thought it would be a fine second chapter to this story.

"Matthieu, please." The Canadian shook his head. "Matthieu." Whimpers this time, a squeeze.

Francis sighed as the impatient huff behind him sounded, wishing that he could simply whip about and punch the vocalizer in the sneer. But, he didn't want that to be his son's last memory of him. "Matthieu, please.. Pa- Francis needs his leg." The tears began, streams of unhappy moisture sliding their way down a face bloated with puppy-fat. It almost had Francis weeping, but he didn't want to break his self-made promise. He would not cry. Not in front of Matthieu, and never in front of Arthur.

"P.. Papa," croaked the small boy, hardly larger than a baby. "Papa, non.. T-take us..home.." Matthew's voice broke rather pathetically, running into incomprehensible sobs. The form behind Francis scoffed. "Can we hurry this along, wank? I haven't the time for all of this rubbish." Oh, how the Frenchman longed to silence that grouchy tone and erase the sure smirk from that Brit. "D sol , Angleterre. I suppose you would not be able to recognized the loving bond between a papa and his child."

Ignoring Arthur's attempted swipe to his head, Francis crouched down to hug Matthew. Predictably, the colony liberated the Frenchman's trouser leg to instead lock his thin arms around the elder's neck and cling. "Papa, non! Please! Matthieu be good! Please! Non, non, non, non!" It was one of the rare times that the boy ever threw such passion into his demands, and it summoned tears to the man's eyes. His son was begging him to keep him, to not send him off with this strange man. And yet there was nothing to be done about it.

"Matthieu.. Papa is terribly sorry." The screams raised into hysteric pitch as Matthew's grip became iron. "Please! D sol ! D sol ! D sol ! D sol , Papa!" Apologizing for something that just was not his fault. And all the Frenchman could do was hold that wracking, tiny form, smooth back mussed locks, fiddle with Matthew's favorite white gown. Hold him and wish that they had more time.

"Frog, would you hurry up, for Christ's sake? You should have accomplished this pansy rubbish hours, nay, days ago! I gave the date!" Matthew couldn't take it. The small colony raised his voice and began to shriek at Arthur, his face a blotchy red. "Non! Mon Papa! Je te hais!" Arthur would never take that standing down. Reaching out, he roughly tugged Matthew away from Francis' arms. "No control over your colony! Can't even teach them manners, frog? This one should be bloody /thankful/ that I'm taking him!"

The boy screeched and flailed his body about wildy, twisting in the Brit's grip wildly in desperate attempt to see Francis. "Papaa! Please! Non! Non!" he gasped, reaching tiny hands out towards the defeaten figure. The more he delayed, the more difficult it was. Steeling his heart and deafening his ears, Francis turned. He did his best to drown out those pitiful wails, eyes blankly lasering the ground. Wishing that it would simply open up and eat him.

He didn't think about how those same desperate hands were the same that clutched his on strolls. How that wild hair curled so beautifully when he brushed it correctly. How that strained voice was typically so quiet and soft, only needing a mild pitch to gain Francis' loving attention. No, he didn't consider the clothing, and just how long he had spent on making it for the boy. How those red cheeks were red with happiness not too many months ago.

Francis just waited until the two other blonds had disappeared, along with the sun and it's warmth. When, finally, the Frenchman looked up to where Matthew had been hours ago, he could only release a hoarse 'Je t'aime' before turning the opposite direction to return home. He did not look back.


End file.
